Or Else I'll Film You
by jedisagefish
Summary: Let's call it a casual conversation between enemies, about a proposal Sherlock nor understands, or can refuse, but later wishes he hadn't complied to. Namely to do with being chained to a mattress. (Warning: sexual content, rape, non-con BDSM)
1. Chapter 1

_Let's call it a casual conversation between enemies, about a proposal Sherlock nor understands, or can refuse, but later wishes he hadn't complied to. Namely to do with being chained to a mattress. Implied BDSM and sexual content. Will get more graphic throughout the chapters._

_Reviews are much appreciated!_

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**Or Else I'll Film You**

Sherlock wouldn't call it complying willingly, though he'd had enough opportunities to back out. The problem was that there was one thing he hated more than making a wrong decision and that was being bored. Jim Moriarty knew that, which was all the more reason to keep the consulting criminal from getting to him. It was exactly what Moriarty wanted; a curious, addicted Sherlock that was on the verge of desperation for that final conclusion of this chapter. A conclusion he could unfortunately still only guess at. Again, that was exactly Moriarty's plan. If Sherlock knew what was going to happen he wouldn't want to come and see it for himself. He wasn't going to like it, obviously. But not knowing what it was… that drove him crazy. And so, despite knowing it was a trap and knowing he was going to regret walking straight into it, he walked straight into it.

This time Moriarty had provided the location. Sherlock figured it was one of the many buildings he sported. Probably one he wouldn't return to after their endeavours there. Unless Sherlock would never walk out of there. That had him hesitating, but the doubt lasted only a moment. He was here now and turning his back to the door was no doubtfully going to get him under sniper's aim. He had made his choice and now there was no turning back anymore.

The handle was firm, which meant it was old and barely used in the past few years. The hollow clang that sounded upon opening the door was definitely satisfying. A proper entrée to a promising ending. It was certainly more satisfying than the clang that echoed out against the far walls of the large space upon having the heavy door fall shut – and locked – behind him. A definite. This was it. He was in Moriarty's story now and the villain would have him however he wanted.

The space was darkened and moist, but Sherlock was certain there was more to it than your average deserted industrial lot. He took a few steps towards the centre, but his fascination was immediately drawn to a staircase to his far right. A staircase leading down into the cellar.

Sherlock's steps were as calculated as they were casual. No matter the nerves Moriarty inevitably embarked on him, he refused to show his favourite criminal the effect he had on Sherlock. As they stood now, the criminal already had enough advantages over him, without the detective baring his weaknesses any further. The only reason he'd felt comfortable making the decision to come here today was knowing Moriarty's weaknesses as well. Knowing that Moriarty needed him alive and feeling that the story was far from over. It wouldn't end today. He'd walk out of here. Though he might not be unchanged.

He took the stairs, knowing that Jim Moriarty had intended for him to take them. They had seemed cleaner, more used, than the rest of the space. Although Sherlock was glad to find the cellar wasn't as dark and unwelcoming, he was objecting to the red laser that he found when he glared down at his coat. He stopped in his steps, right at the bottom of the staircase. The room was smaller. It even somehow resembled a living room – no, a bedroom. There were a few pieces of furniture. A couch and a coffee table. There was even a fridge in the far end of the space. But the mattress in the middle of the room had his attention. The chains attached to each corner of the thing, conflicted with the otherwise homely atmosphere.

Sherlock was simultaneously glad and disturbed when he deduced the mattress hadn't been used. At least it didn't seem part of Moriarty's daily affairs to bring people down here and sexually assault them, but it was bothersome the mattress was especially for him.

"You're not going to keep me here waiting for long, are you?" Sherlock spoke, slowly looking around the place. The walls were covered with some sort of wallpaper, clearly put up just for the occasion. There was a single iron door in the corner and a few darkened windows up above. Through one of them he was being held at gunshot. Nothing he could do about that. "Don't tell me you have to keep me waiting. You've had more than enough time to prepare," Sherlock continued to speak.

"Yes, I have," Moriarty's sing song voice came as a reply, after he'd pushed the door open and stepped into the room. This door, too, fell shut with a clang. Heavy. "But tell me Sherlock, have you?" he smirked, before he pouted, before taking his eyes off Sherlock entirely, to casually take a look around at his handiwork.

"I thought you might settle for something a little more humane," Sherlock told him, half-truthfully, half-mockingly.

"Oh," Moriarty looked at him surprised. "I forgot sex wasn't part of what you'd call your own humanity."

Sherlock didn't reply, not so much as a faked bemused smirk crossed his lips. That was a confirmation in itself, that Moriarty had been right about that, but Sherlock didn't care that he knew. He understood this game. It only ended when the one that set the pieces in place was satisfied and he was certain Moriarty wouldn't be satisfied until Sherlock complied and gave in to the humiliation. This was only the first step, an easy one to take. He'd accepted long ago that his sex-drive was as non-existent as his sexuality.

His eyes focused on Moriarty once more, carefully observing the man, as to not miss out on what opportunities he might get to make this a little bit easier for himself.

"Am I to assume your gay act wasn't fully falsified?" Sherlock asked.

"Obviously," Moriarty said, quite pleased with himself. His hands slipped into his pockets, as he took this moment to look at the detective he so cleverly had lured into his trap. But Moriarty's sense of achievement was shortlisted, which meant he needed to constantly trigger it and how better to do that than through getting what he wanted, time and time again?

"Get on with it then, I can see you're desperate," Sherlock spoke.

"Oh, don't pretend you're not feeling a teensy bit nervous, Sherlock," Moriarty retorted, with a wide grin on his face.

"What's the fun in giving it away that easily?" Sherlock asked. Moriarty seemed pleased with that answer, which in turn pleased Sherlock. He was well aware that these games they played weren't healthy, but he didn't live to be healthy.

"Good, you're already starting to learn how this works," Moriarty said.

"No, I think you're starting to learn," Sherlock replied. "How to play me, that is."

Moriarty did a step towards the detective. He noted how he was no longer held at gunpoint, because it was no longer necessary. He wouldn't go anywhere, after all. He couldn't go anywhere. The building was locked up and an attempt to escape would only scrape off his dignity. Not a satisfaction he wanted to give Moriarty. Besides, it would probably be more of a disappointment than a satisfaction.

"Now, come on Sherlock," Moriarty said, holding out his hand. Sherlock looked at it, before he ignored it and took a step towards the mattress. That was ultimately what Moriarty wanted after all. He didn't need to go through the embarrassment of taking Moriarty's hand to get there, so he wouldn't.

"What will you do after you're done?" he asked, though his eyes remained fixed on the mattress, indicating that he asked the question aloud to himself, rather than directly at Moriarty, who he knew wouldn't answer. Sherlock's eyes roamed the mattress. "You'll let me go."

"What makes you say that?" Moriarty asked. Sherlock noted that the criminal had closed in on him. Actually, Moriarty was right behind him. He could almost feel his breath on the back of his neck. Still, he didn't turn around to face him.

"You want me to relive this memory," Sherlock spoke. "That's humiliating. Being with John and thinking of you. Thinking of you… compromising me."

"You're not wrong," Moriarty replied, which wasn't half as satisfying as having him tell Sherlock he was right, but it was good enough. After all, he was trying his best to be as unsatisfying to Moriarty as he possibly could, given the unfortunate situation. Then again, he had already known he wasn't going to like what he'd find here.

"Frankly, it could be worse," he said, to which Moriarty let out a laugh.

"Oh, I will not let you down, Sherlock," Moriarty spoke, his voice turning to a whisper as he closed in further. This time Sherlock could feel the warm breath caress his skin. The next moment Moriarty had disappeared again, taking his distance from Sherlock. "Come on, Sherlock, face me," Moriarty spoke as if he addressed a small child. Every word was mocking, belittling, but Sherlock paid little mind to it. After all, that was what Moriarty wanted to see… the effect he could have on the detective. It wasn't easy for anything to break through to him and he would try his utmost best not to have Moriarty change that. Well, not without effort. Severe effort.

"This is only the first step," Sherlock replied, while he slowly turned to lay eyes on the criminal. "You might tire before the end."

"Oh, it will be my pleasure regardless," Moriarty said, "literally." He added the latter with the amused grin Sherlock had become to see as familiar. In fact, through the discomfort and inevitable worry he did feel… at home to be in Moriarty's presence. No one could rile him up more than the one consulting criminal could, but it was a change he welcomed, a means to feel something beside the dull tremble of daily crime solving. It had come to mean so little when Moriarty's name wasn't attached to the case.

"As will it be mine," Sherlock dared, honestly. That had Moriarty smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes. It never did. For a split second he caught himself wondering what it would look like if that smile would reach the criminal's eyes, but it was unimportant should he find out. Still, though… it would be quite the achievement, wouldn't it?

"Lay down," Moriarty ordered. "And you ought better listen, Sherlock…"

"Or else?"

"Or else I'll film you."


	2. Chapter 2

For a brief second Sherlock was left wondering how he couldn't have seen this coming, but there was little time he could spend thinking such trivial thoughts, when he was pushed in the mattress so firmly and feverishly. The touch was timid for a second, but then brutal once more, as hands and legs sought to pin his struggling limbs down. At least, he thought, the mattress was soft against his back. This scenario wouldn't have been half as comfortable if it had played out on the ground. Surely he would've bruised his spine. As he looked up into the eyes of his enemy those thoughts were quickly replaced by a newfound conclusion that there would be no shortage of bruises.

"I wanted to play this… fair," Moriarty breathed then, into his ear, after he'd managed to pin the panting detective down effectively.

"Is that why you got the chains?" Sherlock replied, sceptically, but even he knew that this wasn't how Moriarty had planned things at all. He'd wanted Sherlock to obey him. He wanted to fuck him. He wanted to humiliate him, but he hadn't wanted to get close. And this – he felt Moriarty's breath caress his skin – was definitely close.

"Oh, they will still be useful."

It was quite a struggle, especially with both men still fully dressed. Sherlock's coat was definitely provoking him from moving freely, as much as Moriarty's strain was. Moriarty then focused on just Sherlock's right arm, pushing it up and grasping the chain that would keep it in place. Sherlock knew, but no matter how he pulled on Moriarty to let him go, no matter how hard he dug the nails of his still free hand into Moriarty's side, the task for Moriarty was clear and the cold iron that closed around Sherlock's wrist a moment before Moriarty's focus shifted to pressing him down entirely again, was a dead giveaway that he'd lost.

That wasn't the worst. No, Moriarty's _grin_ was. Sherlock had somehow managed to get his left arm free from his coat, that Moriarty had had a strong hold on, but only moments later he found that arm, too, pinned above his head, while Moriarty worked to close the iron shackle around that wrist too. Instead of embarrassing himself further by uselessly kicking his legs about in a wasted attempt of getting the consulting criminal off him, he laid still. It was obvious that Moriarty had the upper hand.

"There," Moriarty said, smiling contently down at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he looked into brown ones. No, the smile never reached them. Interesting. Moriarty didn't seem confused as to why Sherlock had been staring up into his eyes so intensely and simply moved on to the next task at hand. He was impatient, but didn't want to show it.

"Wait," Sherlock hissed, as Moriarty moved down to rid him of his jeans. The criminal didn't look up, nor did he stop, but he did hesitate. _Changeable_, indeed. Now he had to play it well. Really well. "Does this mean I got to you, despite your efforts of remaining unreachable? You might be the consulting criminal, but that's not all you are…"

"All the different roles we play," Moriarty recited, before he stopped his fingers from slipping under the hem of Sherlock's blouse and looked up at the detective instead.

"Which one is this? What are you now?" Sherlock challenged. He had Moriarty's attention now, where before it had been on the task of stripping him naked. Definitely an improvement.

"Don't tell me this is sentiment, Sherlock," he said, mild disappointment tinting through. "It doesn't mean anything, you and I…" he let out a laugh, looking around the room as if he was visualizing their games, their lives and the many ways in which they were similar. "You like being in my way too much," he continued and his eyes found Sherlock's again, who had never taken his eyes off him. "Being in my way has consequences," he spoke as if he was explaining a difficult concept to a young child. "You see, I can't have anyone walking around saying they can bring me down. I can't have so much as that thought tainting public opinion, Sherlock. But you are the challenging kind and well, I can't blame you for that, always being the smartest one. But you're not anymore, Sherlock."

"You didn't answer my question," Sherlock stated.

"Didn't I?" Moriarty replied jokingly, before he shrugged and continued what he'd started before. A firm tug later Sherlock felt his jeans slide down his legs. Moriarty worked quickly to rid him of his shoes and then of his jeans entirely. The logical consequence to that was Sherlock trying to kick Moriarty in the face when he was low enough to do so, but Moriarty had been one step ahead of him and had moved out of the way skilfully. Frustrating.

So, he lay exposed from his underwear down. His blouse had been pushed up and his coat, that was only around his right arm wasn't helping him feel any less vulnerable. Moriarty examined his work, before he moved in once more.

"I'll make it quick," he whispered, as if it was a secret between the two of them. Sherlock didn't respond, but did fixate his eyes on the ceiling so he wouldn't have to endure seeing the look in Moriarty's eyes when he'd realize there was panic in Sherlock's own.

The struggle now would no longer be proof of the wish to get away, but the fear of not being able to, which was why Sherlock lay still. Moriarty took the time to unbutton Sherlock's shirt and bare his chest, then fingers slipped beneath the hem of his underwear and they were off too. All the while Sherlock's eyes hadn't shifted away from the ceiling. Though knowing Moriarty had the freedom to observe him, he quickly looked the criminal over. At least observing how he was being observed made him feel less used.

"Not quite perfect yet," Moriarty mused. A moment later he was off, to rummage in one of the drawers in the room. Now Sherlock had a moment in relative privacy, he tried the bounds around his wrists. Tried to feel how they moved across his skin, how tight they were. Certainly there was no way he could slip free of them without breaking his thumb and the latter would be close to impossible with both his hands tied up. Not that he was keen on the idea anyway.

"I thought you were going to make this quick," Sherlock scoffed.

"Hush, hush," Moriarty replied, no comfort in his tone of voice. But the criminal was already returning to his masterpiece. He cleverly kept out of view what he'd just grabbed and started off with a blindfold that he had tied around Sherlock's head in a matter of seconds. Sherlock huffed, but remained silent otherwise. "Oh, you learn so quickly," Moriarty stated, sounding disappointed. "I want you to disobey, Sherlock…"

"I know," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. He wasn't ready to learn what the punishment would be.

"Ah well, all in good time," Moriarty mused. He'd regained his full demeanour. The slip of earlier, that had brought them both crashing to the mattress, was nothing but a vague memory. Moriarty had full control of himself again and therefore full control of Sherlock too.

After he laid spent on the mattress it did occur to him, that certainly he would've seen this coming if it had been planned, which begged to differ if Moriarty _had_ planned any of this…


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for the reviews! They really give me a boost. Sorry I've kept you waiting a bit longer than I anticipated when I started posting this story. I'll try to have the next installment up a bit sooner. Then I'll have to decide to either keep the story at that or continue it further. Please let me know what you think, it helps me a bunch!

Enjoy reading!

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Moriarty took his time, probably liking this moment of uncertainty from Sherlock and the freedom he had in looking the detective over, taking it all in. His exposed chest and his vulnerable position. Sherlock's hands had taken hold of the chains, so they wouldn't pull on the skin around his wrists so much. Instead of struggling, he'd decided on a different approach, making this as bearable as possible. In ways he'd accepted his position and Moriarty liked seeing that.

In a swift movement Moriarty moved to pin Sherlock's legs down to the mattress and get them tied up too. Sherlock fought it, but the only thing he won with that was a bit of time. A few useless seconds that didn't gain him anything. In the end he felt the cold metal tighten around his ankles and the criminal had him down. He could now officially not put up any sort of fight, except a mental one.

"You look so desperate," Moriarty said, amusement in his voice. Sherlock gritted his teeth at that, but refrained from any sort of retort, not wanting to give Moriarty the satisfaction. "Don't worry, honey," the criminal continued, "you won't be bored."

Sherlock didn't want to be touched, but he didn't have a choice. The chains prevented him from moving away, obviously and there was no dignity in the useless struggle he could pull off, so he lay still, even when Moriarty's hands traced his skin. It caused the criminal to laugh, but not even that caused a reaction in Sherlock. Not one he showed, anyway.

Moriarty moved away then and Sherlock heard something beside him. Moriarty was grabbing whatever he'd previously taken from the cupboard… Sherlock couldn't even begin to imagine what resources Moriarty had to use in this situation, therefore he thought it wiser not to guess. He'd find out soon enough, after all.

He thought he heard a bottle opening as the criminal prepared whatever it was he was going to do next. Sherlock wished he could remove the blindfold. He didn't like this nervous anticipation it forced him in. Listening out for sounds he recognized only to realize he could never be certain what Moriarty would do.

Suddenly he felt something cold against his entrance and the surprise had his body rigid, his breathing sharp, then held, as he didn't dare to move, almost afraid that would provoke Moriarty, who didn't need any provocation to do as he pleased to begin with.

"That's it, Sherlock," Moriarty said, as if addressing a child. Sherlock felt the object push against the muscle and no matter how he tried to move away, he couldn't do it sufficiently. "Now, now, you'll only make it hurt more if you keep struggling, dear," Moriarty told him and there was a clear warning in his voice. "Keep still."

Sherlock hesitated one moment, before he continued to struggle. His ankles moved painfully against the cold metal and he could feel it digging into his skin as he attempted to force his legs together. Suddenly a slap across his face had him cry out. The pain wasn't even that bad, it was the fact that he hadn't seen it coming that did it.

"What did I tell you, Sherlock?" Moriarty repeated, clearly losing his patience. Although whether it was an act or not was unclear, as always. Sherlock didn't reply, which received him another slap across his face with the back of Moriarty's hand. He could feel the burn across his cheek and knew it would leave a mark, especially if Moriarty went on like this. "Come on, be a good boy," Moriarty went on. "What did I tell you?"

"To keep still," Sherlock muttered, though hoped it didn't show much defeat. Moriarty chuckled and the next moment Sherlock felt the coldness against his entrance again and the push against the muscle to make it give way. This time he didn't struggle, not wanting to go through the same humiliation as before. He couldn't say this was any less humiliating though… Or any less painful, for that matter.

He groaned in pain as he could feel the toy sliding inside. Obviously he had no experience in the matter and the stretching didn't go without difficulty. Knowing that Moriarty was enjoying the view also didn't help him feel any better about it.

He flinched at the pain, wishing Moriarty would just stop, but instead the criminal continued to gradually push the toy further inside of him, until he couldn't stop the whimpers. Who in their right mind would willingly go through this pain, he thought to himself, as he'd do anything to make it stop now. Sex continued to be a strange concept.

"You'll have to get used to it, Sherlock," Moriarty spoke, a threat in his voice that Sherlock tried to ignore. He was helpless and he couldn't control the effect this had on him. Moriarty knew that and was all too happy to give Sherlock another reminder by pushing in more firmly, before suddenly removing the object. Sherlock yelped in pain, but then felt relieved. Certainly that wouldn't be it, though. No, this would only be the start. Moriarty was far from done.

He got confirmation as he felt the criminal's weight shift on the mattress. He listened out for any indication of what would happen next, but what he heard certainly didn't strike his fancy. That was unmistakably the noise of pants being undone.

He felt a tug at his ankles then and a moment later the length of the chain was increased, giving him the freedom to move his legs, but not too far. Just far enough to – Moriarty was on top of him, spreading his legs before he could put up any sort of fight with the bit of freedom he'd been given. He let out a groan, but that only received him a chuckle from Moriarty who was certainly enjoying the control he had over the detective.

"Don't worry, boy," Moriarty spoke foully, which caused anger to rile through Sherlock, but unfortunately there wasn't any useful action to take. He could only anticipate and persevere.

Then he felt it, Moriarty pressing against his entrance. He tensed up and he struggled, but Moriarty held him firmly in place. "Ready, virgin?" A rhetorical question, no doubtfully. Either way, it didn't matter if he was ready or not, Moriarty would have him anyway. This was just a clever reminder to the both of them of just _how much_ Moriarty was going to take.

A firm push, then another and Sherlock screams at the burn of being filled, while vaguely aware of the sounds of pleasure that leave Moriarty's lips in sighs and soft gasps. He's trashing about, but that only worsens the pain and soon a slap across his face reminds him exactly of the game that they're playing.

"I thought I was quite clear when I told you to _keep still_," Moriarty warned him. Sherlock was quite glad for the blindfold at this point, as at least it refrained the criminal from seeing the moist in his eyes as he desperately attempted to indeed keep still, not necessarily to listen to the order, but to keep some dignity intact. "Oh, don't be so pathetic, Sherlock," Moriarty mused, while pushing in aggressively again. It caused a soft grunt from the criminal and a desperate whimper from Sherlock.

By the time Moriarty found a steady rhythm Sherlock was crying – silently, but uncontrollably – and as the rhythm quickened he was unsure how much time had passed. It could be hours, for all he knew. It certainly felt like hours. How long did these things usually last? He had absolutely no way of telling how long this torment would continue. He realized just how awfully deficient his knowledge of sex was, which was quite a strange realization to have when he'd lived all his life thinking he would never need to know a thing.

"You look so bewildered, Sherlock," Moriarty chuckled. He was out of breath and his movements were getting more urgent and desperate. That was probably a good thing, Sherlock thought, although for the moment it only meant more pain. At least Sherlock was fairly certain it would mean that Moriarty would be done with it soon. However, he wasn't sure how long 'soon' would still take.

He tried to think of something he couldn't remember clearly, as he'd sometimes found it a sufficient way of getting through painful experiences. Reconstruct patterns of old to escape the present. It had been quite a handy trick at times and he had managed to perfect it through his years of drug abuse and all the problems that had caused.

Suddenly Moriarty was making noise. Not anything as loud as Sherlock had heard it in porn movies or even on those few times that he'd walked in on someone, or accidentally had heard it through the walls. The noises Moriarty made were contained, but definitely there.

Sherlock tried to keep his cries and whimpers in, but it was extremely difficult. He wasn't sure if he'd ever felt anything as hurtful as this. Moriarty was so deep inside him and he could feel it in more ways than one. Their one-sided closeness.

It was suddenly over, he realized, as he felt Moriarty tense for a short moment and groaning in unison with a deep push inside Sherlock, before his movements slowed down, while he caught his breath. The detective had completely forgotten to breathe, but would only realize so after a moment, when Moriarty pulled out of him and he gasped in deeply, filling his lungs with the air they had been craving for.

"You were quite alright for a first time," Moriarty said and Sherlock could hear the disappointment in his voice. He wasn't about to let that get to him. This was over, that was all the good news he needed.

"You've had your fun, now let me go," Sherlock replied determinedly, though his voice shook. His order fell on deaf ears.

"Tell me, boy," Moriarty spoke coldly. "Tell me who owns you." Sherlock kept silent, but received a hard slap to his face for not complying. "I said," Moriarty repeated calmly, "tell me who owns you."

"You shouldn't think it's that easy," he replied determinedly. Moriarty got up then, to do god knows what. When he returned to the bed Sherlock's breathing had sped up to something akin to a panic attack, but he somehow managed to keep from struggling against the bounds, knowing it wouldn't help him any.

"It's such a shame of your beautiful skin, but you leave me no choice, Sherlock," Moriarty spoke, fingertips moving lightly over his chest. "If the message isn't clear enough as it is, I'll just have to write it down for you."

"No!" Sherlock said, pulling hard on the bounds around his wrists. "Don't you dare!" Moriarty chuckled and he felt the cold, sharp, unmistakable sting of a knife against his skin, starting on his chest.

"Don't worry, I'm experienced," Moriarty said in means of false comfort. He felt the burn of blood being drawn with the slow drag of a knife, as Moriarty set to work. He breathed in and out sharply, trying to _not feel_.

"Fine, fine, stop, please," he said in quick succession. "It's you! You own me!" It almost sounded like a plead and in ways it was. A plead for this to stop, but it didn't, which had Sherlock on the verge of severe panic. "What do you _want_?!" he insisted, as the knife continued to carve his chest with whatever it was Moriarty wanted to scar him with.

"Oh, I already have what I want," Moriarty replied. "I just want to make sure you won't forget what I taught you today."

Moriarty moved back then and Sherlock realized he'd finished carving into his skin. He was about to let out a breath he'd been holding, when a painful blow to his head blackened everything and sent him straight to unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sorry for the wait! Hope this will make up for it. Please leave a review, as they mean a lot to me. Enjoy!_

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He awoke in a state of moderate confusion. The sharp pain that spread from the side to his head down his neck to his shoulders reminded him what had caused him to black out this time and with that realization came the memory of what had been done to him.

He longed for a shower. Even more so he longed for a soft bed. But instead he was chained down and blindfolded, still naked. No, something was different. He was _entirely_ naked. He hadn't been entirely naked before. So, he'd been moved. Yes, because his arms were tied up differently. And so were his legs. It was much tighter, yet he recognized the patterns of the rope around his body. It was sometimes used in shows, to stage an impressive escape. It took practice to understand how to move to get the rope to loosen up and what to pull free first, but it was possible and if it was possible, Sherlock was going to find out how. Besides, Moriarty hadn't tied him up in this way for no reason. He'd done it because he _wanted_ Sherlock to escape. In all probability the criminal had long left the building…

He couldn't see any of the rope, as the blindfold prevented that. Nasty trick, as it meant he had to move, despite the pain in his body, to understand exactly where the ropes ran across his skin. First he tried his arms, which were in quite an uncomfortable position above his head. His right would not give, but pulling on his left caused the rope to move just slightly. He went on, exploring as much as he could. It was confusing, as his senses certainly weren't as sharp at the moment as he wished them to be.

In the end, after minutes and minutes of pulling and struggling and perseverance he got his left arm free. He thought that would make everything easier, but the remaining knots were still quite the obstacle. At least he had his hand free to get rid of the blindfold, but that resulted in shock of a whole new level. There was no blindfold…

Then why did his eyes feel so heavy? Then what was pressing against his eyeballs? His fingers ran over his closed eyelids, shakily and his breath was hitching in fear as he tried to understand why he couldn't open his eyes. He was sure he was trying, but it only resulted in a dull pain. As he ran his fingers closer over his eyes, trying to reason that if he was blinded Moriarty wouldn't have seen any sense in making it impossible for him to open his eyes in the first place. No, it was _just_ that his eyelids were glued shut.

He breathed in and out shakily, feeling nauseous to his core. He'd seen quite some horrible things and he didn't often have a problem with any of them, but when it came too close it definitely had it's effect on him. And this was certainly too close.

Quickly he continued to undo the rope, which was far more unnerving now he had his eyes to worry about. He was _desperate_ to get out of here, now. He was desperate for John's assistance.

When he finally managed to untangle himself from the many knots and binds, he got up shakily. He knew he was still in the same room. This was the same mattress and the same floor. He remembered whereabouts the stairs were, but after that it would get harder. After all, he hadn't counted his steps here. But first he had his clothes to worry about. On hands and knees he reached out to feel the ground around him. It was a tedious task, but eventually the fingers of his right hand brushed fabric and he found a shirt. He gritted his teeth at the knowledge that the other items of clothing were scattered elsewhere in the room. Who knew how far Moriarty had gone to hide them away, just to make this game as difficult for Sherlock as he possibly could.

He found his trousers next and decided that searching for his underwear was stretching his luck, so he forgot about that and simply pulled the clothes on that he could find. He was about to leave the cellar. His coat was by far the biggest piece of clothing he'd had on and the fact that he hadn't found it yet, had to mean that it would be somewhere unpredictable. Somewhere –

His phone rang from the other side of the room.

Immediately his head turned in the direction of it, his ears sharp. Before the ringing would stop he set to find it, knowing full well – by the slightly muffled sound – that the thing was in his coat pocket.

Soon his hands brushed the fabric. Finding the pocket wasn't as easy as he'd hoped, but then the hardest part came as his hand closed around the phone… _Stupid_ touch screens. _How_ was he supposed to know where to press to pick up when there were no buttons?! He tried to go with his feeling, pressing whereabouts he knew the button must be. No. Try again. No. Again. The ringing had stopped and immediately he put the thing to his ear, hoping it had meant he'd picked up, not that whoever was trying to call him had given up.

"Hello?"

Nothing. Slowly he lowered the phone, trying not to feel overly disappointed. That had been his one opportunity, but he'd been too slow. Well, at least he had his coat and a phone that was completely useless to him.

After putting the coat on, phone back in the pocket, he stepped back to the stairs. He reached forward with his hands, while he took small steps. Needless to say, he felt like a complete idiot. When he was finally at the top of the stairs he reached into his mind palace for the memories of when he'd first arrived here. Exactly _how_ had he stepped to get to the stairs. He managed to retrace his steps, but his memories weren't as precise as they needed to be to walk them blindly. It took him about three minutes to get to the doors that lead outside and when he finally was outside a game of a whole different level started. Traffic, streetlights, obstructions, pavements that he had to keep to… And he wasn't even close to where he'd be able to hail a cab.

He tipped his head back, facing the sky. Immediately a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders at the reddish glow he could perceive through his closed eyelids, as he let light shine onto his face. At least his suspicion was confirmed, he wasn't blind. The lack of brightness and the slight chill in the air indicated it was getting late, which would also explain the phone call from earlier. John was annoyed and/or worried that he hadn't returned home yet.

With his fingers grazing the side of the building he began to walk. The frustration would get to him at some point, but right now he was doing alright. The dull pain in his eyes was worsening again now he paid it more attention. He made a note to himself to make a shortcut on his phone to call John. That would already be hard enough without being able to see the screen, let alone having to scroll through an undefined list to find a name amongst hundred others.

He wasn't accustomed to having to use his hearing so excessively to get around and so he kept on having to stop and listen out for any sounds he might recognize or things he could easily place. Most of the time he walked by memory, but his memory wasn't accurate to the exact amount of steps it took to get from one corner to the next.

He was getting to the busier parts of London when his phone rang again. Immediately he slipped his hand into his pocket to grab it. Right, try this again. He attempted to pick up, but the ringing continued. He tried again, knowing he had to slide the invisible button to the side wasn't enough to know where it was. He tried again. No luck. He breathed in and out slowly, held his phone in his right hand as he would when normally using it and tried to do it instinctively. The ringing stopped.

"Hello, John?" Sherlock said, immediately, as he pressed the phone to his ear.

"Sherlock, where the hell are you? I've tried calling you about ten times."

"Sorry, I was… asleep."

"Asleep?!" John was obviously annoyed. Whenever John was in one of these moods Sherlock found it hard to say anything. He didn't want to upset him more or say the wrong things. He also didn't want to go along in it.

"I need your help."

"Oh, so now you're picking up because you need my help?! Listen, Sherlock – " But that was when Sherlock decided that this miscommunication wasn't going to be all that helpful to either one of them and he should interrupt it before John would go too far and possibly even hang up on him.

"I was unconscious, now I'm trying to get home, but there are a few… complications."

"Complications? What are you talking about?" Now instead of annoyed, he sounded worried. Sherlock didn't like worrying John, but right now he couldn't honestly say the worry was misplaced.

"It doesn't matter how right now, but I can't see. Please come and pick me up."

"_What?_ Sherlock, _how_ – okay, okay, fine. Tell me where you are and I'll be as quick as I can."


End file.
